Chapter V. The Poor Tortoise. New Changes for Nydia.

THE morning sun shone over the small and odorous garden enclosed within
the peristyle of the house of the Athenian. He lay reclined, sad and
listlessly, on the smooth grass which intersected the viridarium; and a
slight canopy stretched above, broke the fierce rays of the summer sun.

When that fairy mansion was first disinterred from the earth they found
in the garden the shell of a tortoise that had been its inmate. That
animal, so strange a link in the creation, to which Nature seems to have
denied all the pleasure of life, save life's passive and dream-like
perception, had been the guest of the place for years before Glaucus
purchased it; for years, indeed which went beyond the memory of man, and
to which tradition assigned an almost incredible date. The house
had been built and rebuilt—its possessors had changed and
fluctuated—generations had flourished and decayed—and still the
tortoise dragged on its slow and unsympathizing existence. In the
earthquake, which sixteen years before had overthrown many of the public
buildings of the city, and scared away the amazed inhabitants, the house
now inhabited by Glaucus had been terribly shattered. The possessors
deserted it for many days; on their return they cleared away the ruins
which encumbered the viridarium, and found still the tortoise, unharmed
and unconscious of the surrounding destruction. It seemed to bear a
charmed life in its languid blood and imperceptible motions; yet it was
not so inactive as it seemed: it held a regular and monotonous course;
inch by inch it traversed the little orbit of its domain, taking months
to accomplish the whole gyration. It was a restless voyager, that
tortoise!—patiently, and with pain, did it perform its self-appointed
journeys, evincing no interest in the things around it—a philosopher
concentrated in itself. There was something grand in its solitary
selfishness!—the sun in which it basked—the waters poured daily over
it—the air, which it insensibly inhaled, were its sole and unfailing
luxuries. The mild changes of the season, in that lovely clime,
affected it not. It covered itself with its shell—as the saint in his
piety—as the sage in his wisdom—as the lover in his hope.

It was impervious to the shocks and mutations of time—it was an emblem
of time itself: slow, regular, perpetual; unwitting of the passions that
fret themselves around—of the wear and tear of mortality. The poor
tortoise! nothing less than the bursting of volcanoes, the convulsions
of the riven world, could have quenched its sluggish spark! The
inexorable Death, that spared not pomp or beauty, passed unheedingly by
a thing to which death could bring so insignificant a change.

For this animal the mercurial and vivid Greek felt all the wonder and
affection of contrast. He could spend hours in surveying its creeping
progress, in moralizing over its mechanism. He despised it in joy—he
envied it in sorrow.

Regarding it now as he lay along the sward—its dull mass moving while
it seemed motionless, the Athenian murmured to himself:

'The eagle dropped a stone from his talons, thinking to break thy shell:
the stone crushed the head of a poet. This is the allegory of Fate!
Dull thing! Thou hadst a father and a mother; perhaps, ages ago, thou
thyself hadst a mate. Did thy parents love, or didst thou? Did thy
slow blood circulate more gladly when thou didst creep to the side of
thy wedded one? Wert thou capable of affection? Could it distress thee
if she were away from thy side? Couldst thou feel when she was present?
What would I not give to know the history of thy mailed breast—to gaze
upon the mechanism of thy faint desires—to mark what hair—breadth
difference separates thy sorrow from thy joy! Yet, methinks, thou
wouldst know if Ione were present! Thou wouldst feel her coming like a
happier air—like a gladder sun. I envy thee now, for thou knowest not
that she is absent; and I—would I could be like thee—between the
intervals of seeing her! What doubt, what presentiment, haunts me! why
will she not admit me? Days have passed since I heard her voice. For
the first time, life grows flat to me. I am as one who is left alone at
a banquet, the lights dead, and the flowers faded. Ah! Ione, couldst
thou dream how I adore thee!'

From these enamoured reveries, Glaucus was interrupted by the entrance
of Nydia. She came with her light, though cautious step, along the
marble tablinum. She passed the portico, and paused at the flowers
which bordered the garden. She had her water-vase in her hand, and she
sprinkled the thirsting plants, which seemed to brighten at her
approach. She bent to inhale their odor. She touched them timidly and
caressingly. She felt, along their stems, if any withered leaf or
creeping insect marred their beauty. And as she hovered from flower to
flower, with her earnest and youthful countenance and graceful motions,
you could not have imagined a fitter handmaid for the goddess of the
garden.

'Nydia, my child!' said Glaucus.

At the sound of his voice she paused at once—listening, blushing,
breathless; with her lips parted, her face upturned to catch the
direction of the sound, she laid down the vase—she hastened to him; and
wonderful it was to see how unerringly she threaded her dark way through
the flowers, and came by the shortest path to the side of her new lord.

'Nydia,' said Glaucus, tenderly stroking back her long and beautiful
hair, 'it is now three days since thou hast been under the protection of
my household gods. Have they smiled on thee? Art thou happy?'

'Ah! so happy!' sighed the slave.

'And now,' continued Glaucus, 'that thou hast recovered somewhat from
the hateful recollections of thy former state,—and now that they have
fitted thee (touching her broidered tunic) with garments more meet for
thy delicate shape—and now, sweet child, that thou hast accustomed
thyself to a happiness, which may the gods grant thee ever! I am about
to pray at thy hands a boon.'

'Oh! what can I do for thee?' said Nydia, clasping her hands.

'Listen,' said Glaucus, 'and young as thou art, thou shalt be my
confidant. Hast thou ever heard the name of Ione?'

The blind girl gasped for breath, and turning pale as one of the statues
which shone upon them from the peristyle, she answered with an effort,
and after a moment's pause:

'Yes! I have heard that she is of Neapolis, and beautiful.'

'Beautiful! her beauty is a thing to dazzle the day! Neapolis! nay, she
is Greek by origin; Greece only could furnish forth such shapes. Nydia,
I love her!'

'I thought so,' replied Nydia, calmly.

'I love, and thou shalt tell her so. I am about to send thee to her.
Happy Nydia, thou wilt be in her chamber—thou wilt drink the music of
her voice—thou wilt bask in the sunny air of her presence!'

Glaucus, raising himself, drew her towards him with the soothing
caresses of a brother.

'My child, my Nydia, thou weepest in ignorance of the happiness I bestow
on thee. She is gentle, and kind, and soft as the breeze of spring. She
will be a sister to thy youth—she will appreciate thy winning
talents—she will love thy simple graces as none other could, for they
are like her own. Weepest thou still, fond fool? I will not force thee,
sweet. Wilt thou not do for me this kindness?'

'Well, if I can serve thee, command. See, I weep no longer—I am calm.'

'That is my own Nydia,' continued Glaucus, kissing her hand. 'Go, then,
to her: if thou art disappointed in her kindness—if I have deceived
thee, return when thou wilt. I do not give thee to another; I but lend.
My home ever be thy refuge, sweet one. Ah! would it could shelter all
the friendless and distressed! But if my heart whispers truly, I shall
claim thee again soon, my child. My home and Ione's will become the
same, and thou shalt dwell with both.'

A shiver passed through the slight frame of the blind girl, but she wept
no more—she was resigned.

'Go, then, my Nydia, to Ione's house—they shall show thee the way. Take
her the fairest flowers thou canst pluck; the vase which contains them I
will give thee: thou must excuse its unworthiness. Thou shalt take,
too, with thee the lute that I gave thee yesterday, and from which thou
knowest so well to awaken the charming spirit. Thou shalt give her,
also, this letter, in which, after a hundred efforts, I have embodied
something of my thoughts. Let thy ear catch every accent, every
modulation of her voice, and tell me, when we meet again, if its music
should flatter me or discourage. It is now, Nydia, some days since I
have been admitted to Ione; there is something mysterious in this
exclusion. I am distracted with doubts and fears; learn—for thou art
quick, and thy care for me will sharpen tenfold thy acuteness—learn the
cause of this unkindness; speak of me as often as thou canst; let my
name come ever to thy lips: insinuate how I love rather than proclaim
it; watch if she sighs whilst thou speakest, if she answer thee; or, if
she reproves, in what accents she reproves. Be my friend, plead for me:
and oh! how vastly wilt thou overpay the little I have done for thee!
Thou comprehendest, Nydia; thou art yet a child—have I said more than
thou canst understand?'

'No.'

'And thou wilt serve me?'

'Yes.'

'Come to me when thou hast gathered the flowers, and I will give thee
the vase I speak of; seek me in the chamber of Leda. Pretty one, thou
dost not grieve now?'

'Glaucus, I am a slave; what business have I with grief or joy?'

'Sayest thou so? No, Nydia, be free. I give thee freedom; enjoy it as
thou wilt, and pardon me that I reckoned on thy desire to serve me.'

'You are offended. Oh! I would not, for that which no freedom can give,
offend you, Glaucus. My guardian, my saviour, my protector, forgive the
poor blind girl! She does not grieve even in leaving thee, if she can
contribute to thy happiness.'

'May the gods bless this grateful heart!' said Glaucus, greatly moved;
and, unconscious of the fires he excited, he repeatedly kissed her
forehead.

'Thou forgivest me,' said she, 'and thou wilt talk no more of freedom;
my happiness is to be thy slave: thou hast promised thou wilt not give
me to another...'

'I have promised.'

'And now, then, I will gather the flowers.'

Silently, Nydia took from the hand of Glaucus the costly and jewelled
vase, in which the flowers vied with each other in hue and fragrance;
tearlessly she received his parting admonition. She paused for a moment
when his voice ceased—she did not trust herself to reply—she sought
his hand—she raised it to her lips, dropped her veil over her face, and
passed at once from his presence. She paused again as she reached the
threshold; she stretched her hands towards it, and murmured:

'Three happy days—days of unspeakable delight, have I known since I
passed thee—blessed threshold! may peace dwell ever with thee when I am
gone! And now, my heart tears itself from thee, and the only sound it
utters bids me—die!'